dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
by ebilniinja
Summary: "No one ever thought that the albino's already bleached skin could become any more pale..." A short fic about Prussia's death, mostly from Austria's view. Warnings: character death, bad history, human names, and bad writing.


Normally nimble and delicate fingers played note after forlorn note, slipping up a great deal more than the brunette usually did. No one minded, or really noticed. Roderich, for once, didn't even scold himself. The piano's delivery was almost more sincere this way. Erroneous notes accurately reflected his current feelings, as well as the feelings of most of the friends and family sitting in the pews. His song carried on: it was an original piece, written special for the occasion.

Winter, 1947.

At this time, very few of the nations in the room were on good terms, but they had all gathered to pay their respects. Before this day, even Roderich had been on short terms with his previous war comrades. For five long years, the Austrian was bitter. He fought, _hard, _but only because he had to. He had not excused either of the Germans for forcing him into it, literally forcing him, annexing him and his people to fight in a war he wanted no part of.

But when the word came that the one person he despised most in the world- the one he had always abhorred, who had hurt him so many times in the past and was always aching for a fight- had, for lack of a softer word, _passed_... When the word came that his composing services were requested, special, as a final favor, ("_something he would have loved to hear himself_..."), Roderich was unable to contain his desolation. He poured his heart and soul into each mark of ink on the paper. He had locked himself up for three days, alternating between playing notes, writing down notes, and fighting the tears until they stopped.

"_You would have loved to hear this._"

Day four: he had found himself parched, without another tear to shed. He most likely came off as cold and detached to each visitor he greeted.

It was an open casket funeral. No one ever thought that the albino's already bleached skin could become any more pale, so that was a bit of a shock. The (appropriately named) Prussian blue uniform had covered all the scars anyway, so that was not a concern. Albeit covered, the Austrian knew well of every and each scar, having intricately placed a few of them himself, so that was not a mystery to him.

_Another wrong note._

He pushed the thoughts from his mind to avoid his performance being anymore disgraceful than it already was. From the piano bench, he could hear the footsteps of each person brave enough to step up to the casket. Some stayed longer than others. Heavy footsteps, long strides, probably Ludwig: he seemed to stay the longest.

His concerto carried on for forty minutes. It felt like forty days. Upon conclusion, he remained seated a few more moments. He shut the lid of the keys. He nervously, but gently so not to scratch the wood, clawed his fingernails against it.

Was it really over so quickly?

Would he really never see the obnoxious, cocky, bullheaded, strong-willed, impulsive... _awesome _Gilbert Beilschmidt again?

No. He deserved one final visit.

Roderich stood and stepped out from behind the bench, and turned around, and to his surprise, the church was nearly empty. Some sniveling could be heard from the back row where Elizabeta sat, but not much more. Turning towards the casket, he found Ludwig there, still there _somehow_, and a particular bird perched on the wrong German shoulder. He stepped down from the raised deck the piano was atop to reach Ludwig's side. He dare not look up at the mourning brother, but his being could not yet look down at the mourned. It wasn't until he felt a large hand on his shoulder did he look up. There was a moment of silence as the two's eyes connected, breaking it with an equally as silent, yet comforting nod, and a turn of the heel, and a few final words: "_Am liebsten hätte er es hören._"

Roderich remained silent as the German walked down the aisle, stopping to console Eliza and ease her from the church. He remained silent as he turned back towards the casket and finally, after moments, even minutes of staring at Mary in front of him, he lowered his gaze to the pale face. For once, bright red eyes weren't mocking him. For once, those lips weren't curled up into a cocky grin. For once, Roderich allowed himself to completely unravel at the seams when the scene in front of him eagerly unstitched them. Before he knew it, he was and unsightly mess of snot and tears, and with all that had fallen, Gilbert's cold, unusually modest face seemed to be the same.

Roderich had nothing to say, so instead he sobbed. When he thought he had been on empty, he surprised himself himself yet again as he poured his heart and soul and sweat and blood _and all the compassion and love he had left_ into the tears that fell, and when he thought it was finally over, he was swept anew by a wave of emotions he never knew existed.

That was it. If Roderich harbored any secret feelings for Gilbert, they didn't matter now. He was gone and he wasn't coming back, so the only option now was to clean himself up, comfort the few he called his friends, and move on.

He took his handkerchief and wiped Gilbert's face gently, then his own. He took one final look before closing the casket. Engraved into the metal was old, Latin saying he couldn't understand.

They would be burying him tomorrow.


End file.
